“I thought it would be pleasant to walk back; and I hope Doctor Mary will come with us and have some tea.  I’ll send you home afterwards, Doctor Mary.”

Farewells were exchanged, but now without even a show of cordiality.  Naylor and Doctor Mary felt too much distaste for the chief mourners to attain more than a cold civility.  Beaumaroy did not relax into his earlier friendliness.  His apparent dislike to her husband’s plan of staying at the Cottage roused Mrs. Radbolt’s suspicions again; was he a rogue after all, but a very plausible, a very deep one?  Only Mr. Radbolt’s unctuousness—­surely it would have smoothed the stormiest waves—­saved the social situation.

“Intelligent people, I thought,” Beaumaroy observed, as the three friends pursued their way across the heath towards Old Place.  “Didn’t you, Mr. Naylor?”

Old Naylor grunted.  With a twinkle in his eyes, Beaumaroy tried Doctor Mary.  “What was your impression of them?”

“Oh!” moaned Mary, with a deep and expressive note.  “But how did you know they’d be like that?”

“Letters, and the old man’s description, he had a considerable command of language, and very violent likes and dislikes.  I made a picture of them—­and it’s turned out pretty accurate.”

“And those were the nearest kith and kin your poor old man had?” Naylor shook his head sadly.  “The woman obviously cared not a straw about anything but handling his money—­and couldn’t even hide it!  A gross and horrible female, Beaumaroy!”

“Were you really hurt about their insisting on staying?” asked Mary.

“Oh, come, you’re sharper than that, Doctor Mary!  Still, I think I did it pretty well.  I set the old girl thinking again, didn’t I?” He broke into laughter, and Mary joined in heartily.  Old Naylor glanced from one to the other with an air of curiosity.

“You two people look to me—­somehow—­as if you’d got a secret between you.”

“Perhaps we have!  Mr. Naylor’s a man of honor, Doctor Mary; a man who appreciates a situation, a man you can trust.”  Beaumaroy seemed very gay and happy now, disembarrassed of a load, and buoyant alike in walk and in spirit.  “What do you say to letting Mr. Naylor—­just him—­nobody else—­into our secret?”

Mary put her arms through old Mr. Naylor’s.  “I don’t mind, if you don’t.  But nobody else!”

“Then you shall tell him—­the entire story—­at your leisure.  Meanwhile I’ll begin at the wrong end.  I told you I’d made a picture of the hated cousins, of the heirs-at-law, those sorrowing chief mourners.  Well, having made a picture of them that’s proved true, I’ll make a prophecy about them, and I’ll bet you it proves just as true.”

“Go on,” said Mary.  “Listen, Mr. Naylor,” she added with a squeeze of the old man’s arm.

“You’re like a couple of naughty children!” he said, with an affectionate look and laugh.

“Well, my prophecy is that they’ll swear the poor dear old man’s estate at under five thousand.”